


life offers many chances

by Azdaema



Category: Flowers in the Attic - V. C. Andrews
Genre: Ballet, Canon Compliant, Canon-typical ballet teachers as maternal figures, Gen, If There Be Thorns era, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 00:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azdaema/pseuds/Azdaema
Summary: An early take on a fast-growing headcanon of mine about Cathy's relationship with Cindy's birth mother.





	life offers many chances

The last class of the day—a gaggle of giddy of six-year-olds—were chorusing their goodbyes when the bell over the studio door jingled and my once-student Nicole stepped inside.

I had not seen her for the better part of a year—she would be seventeen by now, I supposed. Nicole had stopped coming to classes when her pregnancy started showing, which had been early—leotards don't leave room to hide anything. The girl looked more worn than I'd ever seen her and in one hand she carried an infant's car seat, serving a carrier.

"Nicole!" I exclaimed. "What can I do for you?"

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I want to start dancing again."

I did not respond instantly.

After a matter of seconds without a reply, her resolve cracked. She began to plead. "Please, Miss DuBois!" she begged. "I know it's going to be hard, but I _need_ this. If I don't…" She gestured helplessly with her free hand. "If I don't, I think my daughter is going to consume me."

As gently as I could, I asked, "Do you truly believe you have time?" I thought of the time in my life just after Jory's birth. I had been widowed, yes, but I'd had my family—I had never truely been a single mother in the same way Nicole was now. I'd had Paul and Chris, eagerly playing the role of stepfathers long before either had the title, and Carrie and Madam Marisha, as attentive of babysitters as I could've asked for. And then when I eventually _was_ without my family, living in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I had been able to hire Emma.

"Some," Nicole insisted.

I hesitated again.

"I never truly had time _before_ either!" she protested. "Is there _anyone_ who can say, ‘Yes, I have extra time in my life’? No! No one does, but we all make it work anyways! I'll _make_ time, I swear! And I don't have school now; I got my GED."

"You won't be able to go right back into your old class again—not after not dancing for a year," I warned.

She heard the coming acquiesce in my voice, and she grinned, relief flooding her, as she bobbed her head and obediently replied, "I know."

"…but if you're serious about this," I admitted, "then yes. I would love to have you back." I looked over into the baby carrier, catching a glimpse of a blond head. "What's the little one's name?"

"Cynthia."

"She's beautiful. Bring her."

"To class?" She looked surprised.

"If you can, get her on a schedule so she naps during this time. If she's in the studio enough, she'll learn to sleep through just about anything—Jory did." I sighed, half exhausted, half wistful. "There are exercises that will help you after being pregnant—I remember, and I can teach you. And financially…"

Nicole winced, bracing herself, and my heart constricted.

"If you can help out around the studio afterwards, help me close up…" I glanced around, estimating the amount of work there was to be done and knowing it would never even out, "…I think we can make it even out."

The relief broke over her face, and suddenly she looked much more like the girl I'd known a year ago.

I smiled at Nicole, internally calling myself a fool, and checked the wall clock. "I need to call my husband and let him know I'll be home late, and then we can get started."

"Wait, you mean _right now_?"

"When else?"

Looking taken-aback, she carefully put down the baby's carrier near the wall, gave her drowsy daughter a kiss on the forehead, then began to pull her hair into a bun.

In my office, before reaching for the phone, I opened a desk drawer and reached for an enveloped tucked away in the back. I did not keep it pinned to the wall—I did not need to see it _every_ day—but when I reached for it I knew exactly where to find it.

I drew it out, and my eyes automatically skipped to the end.

> _Keep in shape, do exercises, bring your baby with you and we will all live together in my place until you find new danseur to luv. Life offers many chances, not just one. Come back._

A decade had curled the paper's corners, but I could hear the words, spoken in her distinctive, accented voice, as clear as if Madam Zolta stood just behind my shoulder.

Tucking the note back for safekeeping, I closed the drawer and reached for the phone to dial home. As the phone rang, and I mindlessly tapped my toe against the ground in a series of little _dégagès_, an old habit picked up during my days in New York.

_This one is for you, Madame._


End file.
